Set somewhere in pre-R2. Before Lelouch gets his memories back. Just a bit of a drabble. Enjoy!
His hands are callused and cracked. Palms worn and fingertips burned and Lelouch wonders why because shouldn't they be smooth? Shouldn't they be soft? In his fragmented memories, there are inconsistencies. Hard should be soft, worn should be as new as a baby's and Lelouch wonders if he's going mad.
Everything else is right, in his mind. He's small in his hands and so small and light and he should eat more. He needs to make Rolo eat more. But he is so soft, malleable even, almost as if he would break under his hands if he didn't know how well Rolo did in his physical education class. His own fingers twitch, itching to place on the boy and break and break and burn, but Rolo is his brother. Precious, lovely little brother that is the world.
But the world is jaded. The world is broken, trampled, overrun by something that part of his mind tells him he should hate even if he doesn't really care. He has no interest in that sort of thing, he says to himself. Only being wrapped up in the arms of his little brother, a sheet from an earlier play entangled around them.
Rolo's hands are entwined with his, but they're wrong. They're all wrong, but he ignores that too (why does he ignore that?), bringing them to his lips to kiss the worn palms and the burnt finger tips. He'll soothe them, heal them, make them perfect again but they are perfect. They're so perfect in his hands that he wants to crush them.`
He kisses them again, lips moving over the worn skin, violet watching lilac. The boy is blushing, his brother is blushing and he wants to scream. So his lips shift to the eyebrows, gentle and murmuring sweet nothings and promises that he knows he will fulfill (he won't). And in his arms, his precious brother shifts and murmurs back and he wants to rip out his throat with his bare hands. He kisses that too.
Rolo is perfect to him. Perfect in every way. Perfectly wrong.